


You Put My Mind at Ease

by MAVEfm



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 1930s, 1960s, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Ancient Rome, F/M, Good Omens References, Regency, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Renaissance Era, Roman Catholicism, Slow Burn, riverdalerarepairgiftexchange2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 03:38:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19165051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MAVEfm/pseuds/MAVEfm
Summary: For @archieandrewsprotectionsquad's Riverdale rare pair gift exchange for 2019! And, in honor of Good Omens being released, I thought a good angels and demons au would suffice, so expect a lot of inspiration to be drawn from there.since the beginning, the armies of Good and Evil have been battling one another. But on Earth, the angel Veronica and the demon Forsythe have found a home in humanity. As the years go on, they exchange favors of one another, first to spread good and evil equally, and then to simply have another reason to see each other.





	You Put My Mind at Ease

**Author's Note:**

> This is for @sapphicveronicalodge, who asked for Jeronica in any form so i went with my trusty angels and demons trope! I hope you like it!!!

 

A couple of years ago, God created angels.

 

And then a couple of years later, some of those angels fell, and were reborn as demons from Hell.

 

Their wings were burned black, their bodies changed from the sulfur and the strange fumes of Hell. They landed in the pits of tar and fire, heated by Satan’s anger, proud of their choices and ready to spread hatred and fear to humanity.

 

One such former angel, now a demon, had landed headfirst into a chasm of boiling, irradiated lava and as he struggled, the fires of the Damned pulled horns from his forehead and back to twist closer to his ears. When he emerged, Forsythe was no longer Holy, but a creature of Hell, Satan’s spawn.

 

The problem with that was: He had never totally _agreed_ with Lucifer, he was just a good public speaker, asking for things like free will, choices, dental insurance, etc. And now with the added bonus of being able to get away with the morally gray side of things, he supposed it wasn’t too bad of a gig. At the same time, it hurt that he had actually proved everyone right, that he had a bad habit of getting into trouble.

 

Now he _was_ the trouble.

 

At the same time that Forsythe was stewing over his predicament, the Angel Veronica stewed over the fact that she had missed the whole thing. The ‘Casting Out’, the banishment of rebellious angels into Hell, all because she was busy inventing the little bit of light that shines on jewels and precious stones just right. It was meant to be a surprise housewarming gift for the Almighty’s little project: Earth.

 

Of course it had turned out lovely, but here she had gone and missed the biggest bash of the millennia because she decided to answer a few summons later and let work take center stage for once.

 

It was completely against her usual principles, she was the angel of small victories and celebrations, for Heaven’s sake.

 

Gadreel later told her: “It was less of a party and more of a riot and a terrible battle.”

 

“Yes,” Veronica nodded, “And nobody thought to maybe check up on _me_.”

 

She had the right to complain, or maybe she didn’t, because while the Almighty praised her gift, she was also given Groundwork duty as a punishment for snapping.

 

Forsythe had since made a reputation for himself as a demon, meanwhile, to be a gluttonous, sarcastic, know-it-all. Which was great, hedonism was encouraged, but he also didn’t care about being ‘evil’ and fighting angels. He also had a penchant for not picking his battles very well, and other demons liked to rib him on in foolish and rather annoying ways like Barbus often did by harassing him with the one thing that Forsythe was still sensitive about: “You’re the one that landed headfirst! Like your head in a jug!”

 

Forsythe hissed, “Shut _up_ , Barbas, you _furry piece of shit-”_ Because Barbas was furry, he’d sprouted a mane in the fall that was often slicked with grease because demons had decided that personal hygiene was a waste of time, apparently.

 

“I saw you, jug-head, waddling around like a duck, trying to tear those things off your head-” a few other demons mimed the action, flies buzzing and ugly toads jumping from others hair, Forsythe was glad he wasn’t one of them.

 

“You’re an _idiot_ , Barbas, can you spell that?”

 

The crowd turned on Barbas because it was common knowledge that Barbas had forgotten how to read in the fall. Barbas turned an ugly shade of puce and went for Forsythe’s throat with his big clawed hands, snarling about being the President of Hell with thirty-six demonic legions at his beck and call, and then he assigned Forsythe the jug headed demon to Groundwork on Earth for his trouble.

 

The two of them were shooed to Earth and met just a decade later.

 

It happened when Forsythe was given the assignment to curse a plot of land that would one day inhabit humans, and Veronica was given a plot of land to bless so that someday it would be a place where humans could come to call home.

 

These places, in a few millennia, give or take, would be known, respectively, as Nevada and Colorado.

 

In the middle of drawing an ugly symbol, that would no doubt lead to future inhabitants to lives of hedonism and nihilism, Forsythe spied the angel just a few yards away, doing just the opposite. He grunted, pushing himself to his feet to stomp after her. “Uh, I don’t know if you heard, but _I’m_ cursing this area.”

 

To make an example, he pointed at a just sprouted batch of wildflowers, which blackened and crumbled brown.

 

The angel scoffed, her perfect eyebrows turned down. “Well, I was here first.” She snapped at the flowers, who instantly perked up, almost glowing with beauty. Forsythe tsked, feeling ready for a fight that would end with the two of them in the mud.

 

Long ago, he’d been given a blade forged in the fires of an ancient volcano, sculpted while hot and sharpened on a blessed marble tablet, fit for an angel. Hell had changed it, but it was still deadly. But the angel stopped him just as he’d slipped out of its holster, her expression immediately changing into one of distaste.

 

“For both of our sakes, let’s not,” She rolled her eyes, “As cathartic as a brawl would be, killing each other would get us into so much red tape, and then we’d just be back here.”

 

Forsythe sniffed, because she was absolutely right.

 

“You’re right,” He admitted it, imagining seeing Barbas’ ugly mug again after a dozen years of freedom from it and his calling him Jughead. Besides, it was possible that he was liking Groundwork. “What do you say we do about it?”

 

Veronica was glad the demon was open to hearing an angelic solution, “Obviously you should let me just go ahead with the Blessing, good triumphs over evil, you know.”

 

Forsythe blinked, having not really expected anything else. “Uh, no, I _obviously can't_ do that,” the angel crossed her arms and he sighed, “How about we take a page from your book, and we each turn a cheek?” The angel’s eyebrow quirked and Forsythe nodded, “You get over there, I get over there, and we try to get more than the other.”

 

“A game?” Veronica scoffed, “Angels don’t play games.”

 

“Yes, I’m well aware.” Forsythe rolled his eyes, “Think of it as a show of Heaven’s Might against the forces of Evil?”

 

Truthfully Veronica wondered if it would really make a difference in the Grand Scheme of things, and it made sense, splitting the work and keeping everything balanced. Angel’s supposedly had no vices, and Demon’s supposedly had no true Earthly Wants, save for causing discord.

 

But Veronica and Forsythe found they both had something in common at that moment: They were both just a touch lazy.

 

Hard-working and Goal Oriented, without a doubt, but they also loved to sit back.

 

They shook on it, Veronica started on one end of future Colorado, and Forsythe on the end of Nevada. The two of them Blessed and Damned as fast as they could over the next few days, barely stopping to rest, and eventually met exactly in the middle, so tired and worn down that their blessings and curses mingled together and became jumbled into an incomprehensible mess.

 

Which might explain why Utah is, well, like That.

 

They shook on it again, tired and beaten, but in good spirits.

 

“I am the Principality Veronica,” She stated, her eyes shining with the perfect light, just as she invented. Her wings were wide and a blinding white.

 

“Forsythe,” Forsythe nodded, his own wings blackened and scruffy-looking. “Though other people will call me, uh, Jughead.”

 

“I like it,” She smiled, and they sat down for the rest of the chat, right there in the middle of Utah. “Is it because of the horns?”

 

“It’s because I fell into a pit of boiling sulfur headfirst.”

 

“Oh,” Veronica pouted, “I wasn’t there for that… kind of why I was put on Groundwork.”

 

“You were a no-show to the biggest event in the history of Heaven?” Forsythe, or Jughead, scoffed, suddenly liking the idea of maybe reclaiming the ugly title, and this angel, who was freely admitting her own mistake.

 

“I-shut up!” Veronica gave him a quick punch to the arm, “How about you, how did you get put on Groundwork? Something stupid right?”

 

“I… They’re all pricks down there, and I’m better than that,” Jughead shrugged, “They put me up here because they _know_ I’m better.”

 

Veronica tsked, “Pride is a sin, Jughead.”

 

Jughead watched her finger wag and he couldn’t help a smile. “Good thing I’m a demon, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

The boy, David, appeared almost comically small in the armor given to him. His lean and scruffy body disappearing under the polished silver. Veronica felt strangely queasy seeing him, as if she could feel his embarrassment for herself, one of Hell’s inventions no doubt.

 

“I think he looks pretty dashing.”

 

The voice made her tense, having not heard it for several years. “Forsythe!” She whipped around to see him, grimy and as frayed as ever, “I mean- Jughead.”

 

He gave her a crooked-toothed grin, “Veronica,” He nodded, “You got him here didn’t you? I thought you’d be happy.” He gestured to David.

 

Poor, sweet, gangly David.

 

Poor, sweet, gangly David, who was now leaning forlornly against a pole because he couldn’t support the weight of the armor.

 

“Of course I’m _happy,_ ” She said, knowing she looked glum as all hell, “Just look at him, making me proud and delivering the Good Word.”

 

The silver glinted perfectly. It made her want to spit. “I’m sure he feels great,” Jughead rationalize, “Even if he is sweating through that chainmail.”

 

“Oh, leave us alone, Jughead.” She snapped, ready to stalk away until he said:

“It’s too bad it looks ready to fall off of him.”

 

With that, his pauldron unclipped and fell to the ground, and David huffed rather loudly for a boy of his lung capacity and began to pull off the armor piece by piece. Really it seemed to drip off of him like water, with every bit he pulled off by himself, two fell off on their own. Veronica smiled wide and turned to find Jughead gone before she could even think about thanking him.

 

Jughead had, in fact, felt so embarrassed from actually helping an _angel_ in a crisis of fashion that he resigned himself to helping the opposing army, convincing the general to send out their Goliath first thing instead of last.

 

But after catching Veronica’s smile from across the battlefield, he maybe smiled back.

 

And then immediately fled when David’s aim stayed true, striking the Goliath dead, and sending the general running after Jughead like a rabid dog.

 

* * *

 

 

The cave was empty, the rock pushed aside to display the truest of miracles. Left behind was the Son of God’s cloth garment, laid over his dead body to stave off the rats for only a moment as the body decomposed.

 

As of seven hours ago, however, that had stopped being a problem.

 

“This must be a nightmare up there,” Jughead found himself wandering up to Veronica’s side, picking at a piece of bread he’d picked up in town.

 

Lately, he’d found food to be getting better and better, unlike before when he’d found it too strange and human for him, he found the act was growing on him. He’d wondered if Veronica was finding anything like that for herself, probably the clothes, based on their limited reactions p to now.

 

Veronica was tapping her foot and biting her lip, staring into the empty tomb, her hair tied up in a complex wrap that Jughead tried to make sense of for just a second before giving up entirely.

 

“Sorry, what?” She said, turning, “Jughead! What are _you_ doing in Golgotha?”

 

He shrugged, “Roman soldiers are great about not resisting temptation, I was wondering about this P.R. scandal,” He gestured to the sight of the prophet/messiah’s resting place.

 

“Oh, what?” Veronica made a face and shook her head, “No this was planned, a part of the Grand Scheme, he was supposed to rise… I’m pretty sure, I know he’s supposed to ascend, but you really can’t do that if you’re dead, but you know, he’s always played it fast and loose.”

 

In the midst of her babbling, Jughead found himself smiling. “And… you’re _okay_ with that? Him being all… _fast and loose_ , with Heaven?”

 

“He turned water into wine when he was 13,” She waved her hand, “He knew what he was doing.”

 

Jughead thought back to that First Miracle, but could only remember being extremely inebriated at the time. “I’ll… take your word for it,” She still looked anxious as he began to recount the tale, and eventually he had to ask: “So what’s your problem?”

 

Veronica grunted, thankful for his asking, “The problem is that he's going to ascend without the blade or the damn _cloth!_ ” Jughead held back a grin at her use of the word, “In _fact_ ,” She continued, “They didn’t even _give_ him the blade to be buried with, so I’m stuck here listening to the Archangel Uriel read off their checklists in preparation for his ascension.”

 

“But he’s just a human prophet, or messiah, whatever, he’s gonna forget stuff.”

 

“That’s what _I_ said,” Veronica stressed, “Thank you.”

 

Caught up in the glee of hearing an angel agree with him, he almost forgot to glance over his shoulder at the ‘Thank you’, well aware that receiving thanks, especially from an angel, could lead him to another annoying punishment, like scrubbing Satan’s dining hall floors. And it was in Hell, so they went on quite literally forever.

 

“And I can’t just leave this stuff here,” Veronica grieved, “And I can’t exactly take what I have back either, Uriel will see that it’s incomplete, and I do not want to piss them off, these are Holy items, they could cause a serious accident.”

 

Jughead tried to imagine the catastrophes arising from humans owning objects infused with heavenly energy, and it made him somewhat happy, if a bit interested in Veronica’s strife. He rationalized that there could be some personal gain in all of this, something to brag home to Barbas about.

 

“Then tell them I’ve stolen them.” he shrugged, already writing the memo at the back of his mind.

 

“You?” Veronica looked affronted, “What good would that do?”

 

“What else are you gonna do, angel?” He asked, watching a few women from the village stumble their way up the hill, preparing to wash a body that wasn’t there anymore. “What will Uriel say if they found out you just… couldn’t find them?”

 

Veronica had caught sight of the women as well, but turned back to face him, “When you put it like that… Are you… offering to _help me_ ? Is that what this is?”

Jughead scoffed, scandalized, “I’m making a deal, angel, I scratch your back this once, and you will scratch mine later, I mean there’s just us on this planet, everyone else up in Heaven or down in Hell, they’re not gonna check this sort of stuff, the Demon Lord Barbas would rather get sprayed with Holy Water than stick his ugly mug up here.”

 

Veronica paused to think about it, “I… listen you’re not wrong, Uriel wouldn’t dare step down here but-”

 

“Think of it like this, we’ll cancel each other out, interfering with each other like this, you doing good and me doing evil, it’ll just be neutral and nothing to write home about, except maybe the odd miracle or whatever.”

 

Veronica squinted, trying to see where he, the demon, would benefit from all of this, besides maybe his boss leaving him alone. He was the only demon she’d ever met, and in the few times they’d seen each other he’d never really stuck to the script of what she’d been told demons are supposed to be. He’d never asked her to fall from grace or tried to steal human souls and this could all be a part of something she could call a ‘long game’.

 

Upper Management had put her on Groundwork to keep humanity good after their separation from Eden. They might be glad to know that she was down here, fighting the fight against the demon sent from Down Below whose only job was to make mischief.

 

She grunted, choosing to play the game, on her own terms of course, “I will… think about it.”

 

Jughead smiled, toothy.

 

“Now get behind the rock.”

 

His grin fell, “What?”

 

“I have to give my speech to Mary Magdalene, you fool,” She tutted, waving her hand, “Get behind the rock.”

 

Jughead blinked and the Angel Veronica was suddenly sat upon the rock, glowing like the angel she was. She examined her fingernails as the women approached, wondering out loud how they might go about moving the rock on their own and he hurried to find a place to watch.

 

The women stopped, dropping to their knees at the sight of Veronica, and Jughead rolled his eyes.

 

Veronica spoke with all the warmth and holiness of Heaven: _“Do not be alarmed,”_ She said, but the women kept shaking, _“Jesus of Nazerene, once crucified, has risen! Go ahead, to the disciple Peter, and tell him to go ahead to Galilee, and you will see this as the truth!”_ The women screamed, but nodded, sprinting back down the path as Jughead emerged, chuckling.

 

“The whole, _‘Be not afraid’_ thing doesn’t really work, does it?”

 

“No never,” She made the cross over her chest, to bless the women on their path as he asked:

 

“Who’s Peter?”

 

“I don’t know, some guy, I don’t really pay attention to that kind of stuff,” She winced, reminding herself that that kind of thinking was got her sent down here in the first place. Then moved to shake his hand. He stared at it for a minute.

 

“So you agree? We’ll help each other out?”

 

“You’ll help me out, I’m still thinking about the other part,” She clarified, “But yes, you will tell the Lord Barbas that you spread the Holy Items to humanity, and I will tell Heaven that you stole them.”

 

“Then we both stay longer,” Jughead added, “More time for you to acquire clothes and art I assume?”

 

“Just shake my hand, demon.”

 

So he did.

 

* * *

 

 

“They’ve killed Caesar.”

 

The Angel Veronica dropped her glasses she was so shocked. Frankly, Jughead had never truly understood why she needed them, but he had soon realized, in all these years of knowing her that she had an eye for trends.

 

“Caesar is dead!” She proclaimed this as if she had discovered the news herself and was telling him about it instead. He smirked, adjusting the flop of fabric on his head, covering the horns. “Who would do such a thing?”

 

“Uh…” He tilted his head from side to side, letting her get more and more flustered, “Heaven, Veronica, let me think… some guy named Brutus?”

 

“Brute!” She yelled, her eyes wide, _“Brute!?”_

 

Jughead nodded glumly, “His own best friend.”

 

“Forget that, how could he?” She adjusted her extremely complicated chiton, “After everything he’d done for him?”

 

“Well, I…” Jughead picked at his own anxious looking garments, frayed and dusty looking, “Did lead Caesar down a path, by getting onto his cabinet, so to speak-” Veronica smacked his arm as hard as she could.

 

“I thought you said you wouldn’t be following Hell’s plan for him!”

 

“I had my own interests to think about, okay?” Jughead rubbed his arm, “Just like you, party angel, does Uriel know you’ve _opened a women’s bar?”_

 

“It doesn’t matter!” Veronica waved him off, face going red, “If you were in Caesar’s cabinet, Brute will be coming after you-” Jughead snapped his fingers.

 

“Yes! Exactly!” He nodded, “So you’ll protect me!”

 

Veronica looked ready to throw him out the window before he reminded her of their little game from years ago. “We return each other’s favors!”

 

She squinted at him, righteous frustration, one could call it.

 

“I won’t protect you, demon,” She snapped, but her shoulders fell, “I will protect the girls downstairs from any of Brute’s men, however,” She gave him a pointed look.

 

Jughead sighed heavily.

 

“Those girls always make fun of me.”

 

Veronica’s mind was made up.

 

He wondered if he would have considered the whole ordeal embarrassing if he had been human and in possession of an actual gender.

 

He scurried out with the other girls just as Brutus, or Brute, had burst in to confront what he had assumed was Forsythe, the little devil on Caesar’s shoulder, but instead found Veronica caught in mock surprise. He stopped just below her balcony, watching their shadows converse, then scaled the trellis in his chiton.

 

Just in time to see Veronica give Brutus a hard punch to the side of his head. Jughead gasped as she fled out to the balcony, freezing when she realized she had nowhere to go.

 

“Here, angel!”

 

She panicked, flailing her hands about for a second before grabbing his hand and stepping over the railing as Brutus groaned inside. She hesitated, looking down at the ground below, before committing and climbing down close to him. They took each other’s hands and ran, just as Brutus’s men set the building ablaze and Veronica looked back, saddened, her chiton gathered in one hand and her other in Jughead’s.

 

“I was thinking of getting out of Rome,” he puffed.

 

Veronica was breathing hard, but nodded, grieving her establishment, but thinking ahead. “You really saved me back there.” She said, leaning back against the wall in some alley they wandered into.

 

“You saved yourself angel, I didn’t do anything,” He hurried to correct her, “Hell can’t hear you spreading rumors like that.”

 

She nodded, “Of course, demons never do anything nice.”

 

Rome was crumbling around them, maybe to be built up again, or not, time will tell. But as Veronica planned her next steps in the world of mortals she told Jughead: “I understand why he did it, but I can’t imagine what it took to carry it on… I could never betray my friends trust, even if it was for the good of a country, I just can’t understand it.”

 

Jughead rested his palms on his knees and looked up at her, sweaty and hair tousled, he took off his hat and his horns shone in the light of another burning building. “It's because you’re an angel, Veronica, you do good and only good.”

 

She blinked, then smiled, “Oh, thank you Forsythe.”

 

* * *

 

 

Veronica hated the 11th century, because it seemed as if nothing _ever_ happened.

 

The clothes were abysmal, the art just alright. Perhaps it was because she was spending so much time in England, watching the Anglo-Saxons take over just about everything.

 

Jughead resolved to nap until the 12th century, with breaks every few years to attend a party or whisper in a priests ear, just for fun.

 

Of course during this time, he’d picked up a taste again for… eating.

 

In general this time, not just as an experiment, to the hearties and juiciest meat to cheese and wines and fruit, to the bugs and fish and strange foods the farther South he got. It was like he’d finally found his _thing_. Veronica could never truly understand it, but wine was what brought them back together over the century. Wine reminded Jughead of the church, and the church reminded him of angels, and Veronica.

 

They went touring through Russia together then, going half blind on Vodka and meeting the prince. They spent a decade in Asia, and though she would never admit it, Jughead thought that what they did was akin to raising Hell.

 

A general in China gifted Veronica a string of pearls before they left, and Jughead almost couldn’t believe his eyes, a human giving up something so valuable to someone else. Veronica could only thank him, unable to turn down a man so clearly stricken.

 

“He’ll forget about me,” She laughed, but shared with him a painting she had commissioned of the two of them, in the style of the time, her purple kimono looked beautiful painted next to his frays and loose edges, his hair managing to go everywhere, even tucked under his cap.

 

He kept it rolled away somewhere, scolding it to never fade or wrinkle of he’d tear it to shreds upon shreds until it was nothing but dust and barely a memory.

 

Needless to say the terrified scroll had no choice and would never lose its color to time, knowing what was at stake.

 

They returned to England just in time for the black plague.

 

They fought about it, because for some reason every terrible thing to befall humanity was his sides fault. He blew up at her, because why couldn’t it be a test? The Almighty loved to play games like that.

 

She snapped and slapped him upside the head, he raged and threw her vases and paintings around and even set one on fire.

 

Then to cool down he slept through the 13th century, and then halfway through the 14th for good measure. He only woke to get a sip of water, then realized he liked the food even more than the 12th century.

 

Veronica loved the Renaissance so much, that her style remained there until perhaps even the Regency Era began, barely a blink of an eye, and her and Forsythe might have talked at least three times in the middle. But the art and fashion and the monarchy, all the culture created, all the sculptures and love put into the gardens and into the rebellions in France and the little parasols, Veronica barely thought about Jughead at all.

 

Except maybe during a spare luncheon, she loved the luncheons, and teatime, and the gossip. She would join any lunch, no matter who it was, if they were rich or poor or lords and ladies or even Michelangelo, who really just spent the whole meal complaining about his back and the sculptures he was leaving unfinished.

 

He really was a delight, though.

 

And then all of the beheadings in France, truly a nightmare, she supposed Hell must be behind this one as well.

 

She, of course, _missed_ the whole beginning of it, as was her annoying habit.

 

She understood the reasoning, she had to, she was an angel, it was in her very nature to understand conflict. The people of France were suffering, but she had to help the ladies escape, the maids and the staff, as well.

 

The pearls had been ripped off of her neck in the fire and the riots, the beautiful gift she had held so dear, given to her by General Zhao out of love and respect.

 

An angel wasn’t meant to have attachments to material objects but these were _her pearls_.

 

She cried over them.

 

She went into mourning and watched humanity discover the New World, and the cursed and Blessed land she had met her friend Forsythe on so long ago.

 

And then as Jane Austen published her first book, she supposed it was time to get over her pearls.

 

She met Jughead again as she indulged in reading Pride and Prejudice for the seventh time.

 

“I suppose,” He had begun, looking just as gloomy as he always had, his hair disheveled, his style was always stuck decades in the past. It made her smile as soft as a dove. “I suppose I do feel… regretful, at how we left things.”

 

“Oh, yes,” She agreed, “The Plague is a thing of the past, my friend,” She put a hand on his knee, wanting to have another lunch with him, thinking to another tour of Europe and Russia, or of Asia, “Let’s look to the future, of you and I.”

 

He was silent for a moment, looked around at her apartment, high above the quaintest town in England, just as she liked it, then complimented her collection of books. He’d also found a love of reading in the past many years, and recommend her a decade’s worth for her to read in a very small voice.

 

She rushed to return the favor, hurrying around her shelves to stack books in her arms that he _had_ to read.

 

Only to find him with a box in his hand when she returned.

 

“I managed to find them,” He cleared his throat, “Just a demonic miracle, nothing special.”

 

She opened the box, and almost cried at the sight of General Zhao’s pearls.

 

“Jughead,” She looked up at him, then motioned for him to clip them on for her, feeling his thin fingers struggle with the clasp around her neck. “This is so… _kind_ of you.”

 

“Don’t go telling everybody…” he looked away to parse through the reading material she was gifting him.

 

“You must join me at Ms. Austen’s party next week, she’ll adore you,” Veronica insisted, “I adore you, Forsythe, I’ve missed you so much over the past century.”

 

“I-” He blinked, “Me too, Veronica, you’re my friend.”

 

She invited him to a turn about the room, to tell him all she had done the past century, and they linked arms to stay in step.

 

* * *

 

 

After some convincing from Upper Management, Veronica had moved herself to America by 1915. Jughead, beholden to no actual Evil Corporate Strategy from Hell, hung back in Russia, for no other reason than Rasputin being there. They enjoyed many parties and rituals together, because Rasputin, along with his merry band, seemed to be one of the few people on Earth that could get him drunk enough to actually enjoy himself at a raging party. Jughead had invented the hangover centuries ago, in response to the endless Bacchanals he’d endured in Rome when he’d been trying to sleep the week away.

 

But with Rasputin and his happy followers, for awhile, no such thing would ever ail them.

 

After the man’s untimely death in 1916, Jughead had spent much of his time moping, day after day, and letting several tragedies to befall the Czar and his royal family. Then, he moved onto moping throughout the rest of western Europe, through the Great War, and then back into Russia to sit morose under a pile of snow.

 

Somehow, Veronica’s letter found him anyway, and he remembered feeling ever so slightly elated seeing her loopy handwriting.

 

Veronica, during her time in America, had dedicated her time toward helping the wounded coming back from the most dreadful conflict she had ever seen. So many hurt people, and she could feel it in her heart. She knew Jughead was just as hurt by the death of his human friend, and she was hurt watching the brave men and women she’d befriended in her time in America get ripped and shattered. The world was hurting, and she needed a friend so as not to fall into despair, and she needed a party, some alcohol, some music…

 

Jughead finally answered her call in 1922, and jazz welcomed him. After the War, and after the pain, Veronica fell in love with it, she immersed herself in it. Angels didn’t often dance, and really, by often she meant: Not at all. But jazz and swing, and the blues, with the fashion and the attitude, she felt alive, and whenever she could, she snuck away from her job at the hospital and met a girl named Cheryl to smoke cigars and create a happiness that even Heaven must have felt. Cheryl and Antoinette, and, for one special night, Jughead, caught a show.

 

Jughead was a demon, and therefore could dance as badly as he pleased. But Veronica could never coax him away from the wall. But the glances they shared spoke volumes about the centuries that brought them here.

 

It sort of fell apart when Prohibition began, but into the decade, Jughead talked about getting her a gift but danced, or meandered, about the subject. Before finally, on a dark night in 1935 he shielded her eyes and brought her down a steep set of stairs.

 

“I’m making up for a lost favor back in Rome,” He said.

 

It had been so long since their little game of favors had started, and Veronica had lost track of how many she and Jughead owed each other. She began to object, as any angel would do, until he cut her off.

 

“Trust me, you’ll love it.”

 

He let his hands fall from her eyes.

 

A _speakeasy_.

 

Veronica let herself be filled for just a moment with a palpable excitement at the idea of putting herself at the forefront of the current and rapidly changing American culture. It was really all she wanted, to be ahead of the curve instead of missing the show just as it was getting over with.

 

At the same time… “Jug, speakeasy’s are illegal… I’m an angel-”

 

“I knew you were gonna say that,” He dug through the pockets of his well worn coat, “So I’ll tell you that technically, this is a demonic establishment-” he held out a fist, then dropped a set of keys to hold in between his thumb and forefinger. “-But it is the angels that open the gates.”

 

Veronica shrieked, then giggled, throwing her arms around Jughead’s neck before almost greedily taking the keys for herself. “You’ve been thinking about the Ides for this long?” She asks, inspecting the space. Jughead could only shrug.

 

It doesn’t last long, barely three years, but Veronica makes sure _La Bonne Nuit_ is the most open secret in town, plans every switch before a raid with fervent gusto. Jughead makes it his regular spot, buying an apartment in town with dirty money from the mob.

 

Before the Second War comes, it’s burned to the ground, much like her bar in Rome, by a man with a vengeance that had found himself on the more extreme side of the temperance movement. It almost seems a fitting end, taking Jughead’s hand as they escape into the cold night.

 

She jokingly blames his side, and she's still holding his hand like hers belonged there.

 

They truly fit together, she had thought.

 

Jughead softly wrestled his fingers from hers.

 

“You’re sure you’re okay with all of this?” He gestured to her once grand establishment.

 

They linked arms as the sound of sirens filled the air.

 

“No,” She answered honestly, “But it seems fitting, it was all I could have hoped for after what we went through,” She paused, “Now with another war on the horizon…” She stopped and turned to face him on the street, reaching up to pull a bit of his scraggly black hair from his face, “We’re going to be stretched thin by what’s to come, just… promise me, we’ll get drinks? Anywhere you like, like the Plaza up in New York-”

 

“Veronica,” He stopped her, “Yes…. We’ll get drinks, I mean.”

 

“Good,” She nodded, “I can’t imagine Earth without us and our little game, Jughead.”

 

* * *

 

 

If the 20’s and 30’s belonged to Veronica, the 60’s and 70’s belonged to Jughead. He loved every second of them, from the music to the ugly clothes, the drugs and the gangs and the pretty boys on the movie screens. He loved The Doors and The Kinks, and the Beatles, the Grateful Dead, Creedence Clearwater Revival to Pink Floyd and Janis Joplin. Veronica could only hold on for the ride, protest to protest, miracle to miracle.

 

He felt good, happy being alive even when he could not technically die.

 

The two of them would get drinks, at the Plaza of course, and Jughead would eat his meal as Veronica watched, making him describe the taste and smell to her. Then they would pack up and make their way to a protest or an art exhibition, whichever came first.

 

They saw the most of each other in these years, and man saw more of itself in these days as they touched down upon the moon, and Earth was seen from an angle that put even Jughead to tears. For a while it was just Neil Armstrong and Forsythe and Veronica, separated by the static of the TV and the glowing light of the moon’s majesty. Veronica pushed her shining tears away, sparkling with the light that she had invented, sparkling like the stars in the night sky, and said: “Not even Heaven, could wish for this.”

 

Humanity saw itself at Woodstock, at Stonewall, at Kent State, in Texas, in Vietnam, in Civil Rights and its opposition.

 

Jughead saw himself too, humanity and a demon and Veronica, they saw each other.

 

In LSD and peyote, mushrooms, and weed. In the guitars and drum solos, in the voices of thousands, and Jughead couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever truly sat at someone’s side and tempted them to Hell.

 

Minor inconveniences were his specialty, and easy to create, when all he wanted to do was experience this new world.

 

By himself.

 

But mostly with her.

 

* * *

 

 

It was 2019 when Archie Andrews fell in love and kissed Joaquin DeSantos.

 

Before that, Veronica was committed to helping him find love in Betty Cooper, who really checked all the boxes, I mean look at her.

 

And before that, Jughead had received orders from Down Below that the angel Veronica must be thwarted.

 

He asked her what she was doing, getting a job at a Home Depot in the middle of nowhere, Ohio.

 

“I don’t actually work here,” She smiled, “But Archie is here, and he’s thinking about getting flowers for someone special.”

 

Jughead can’t really remember when Veronica had decided that matchmaking was going to be her new forte, maybe 1992. Or Cheryl and Toni.

 

“And who’s this lucky lady?” Jughead asked.

 

Veronica pointed her out a day later, organizing a committee at the high school.

 

“It’s just a sweet small town romance,” She grinned, “I’m just here to help it just the tiniest amount.”

 

Veronica didn’t believe in exaggeration, and her meddling was always the slightest of inches. She convinced Archie through sails pitch that the light pink rose was much sweeter than the full-throttle red.

 

Jughead, on orders from Hell, found his way into Betty’s study group, then invited her for coffee, even if he wasn’t really a student at the high school, but who was going to check?

 

He let her talk about school, and her dreams for the future, and it reminded him of Veronica’s resolve to be a forward thinker.

 

He left the coffee date feeling he’d done enough thwarting for the next millennia.

 

Veronica’s shock at learning her plan had failed was not undeserved, if anyone should have been sweet on each other it would have been those two, wrapped around each other in a Spring Fling bliss and carried onto college and the world beyond. She smacked his arm, “You had something to do with this didn’t you! Fiend!”

 

“I was only doing some mild, Hell ordered thwarting of your angelic plans!” He couldn’t help but smile, watching Archie from a distance and his friend, Joaquin DeSantos approach.

 

Veronica paused, “Really?”

 

“What else was I supposed to do? Thwart the antique shop that _I_ have money in? You’re unthwartable until you scheme.”

 

She dropped her angry hand, then turned back to Archie and Joaquin. “Maybe we should… put a stop to our game.”

 

Jughead felt as if he was being dragged back to Hell, “Over a game of Matchmaker? Veronica?” His hands suddenly shook, “I can fix it, I can, just give me a week, she’ll be all over him again-”

 

“It’s not-” She smiled, then laughed, “It’s not that Jug, I just-”

 

Down the hill, Joaquin was doing his best to put himself out there, as his best friend Sweet Pea, had instructed him too, hearing from Mason ‘Fangs’ Fogarty that one Archie Andrews had quit pursuing one Betty Cooper not a few days ago.

 

He’d read somewhere that taking risks and understanding one’s limits could be done by aiming first for the highest most unattainable stars. Then, by seeing where you fell short, knowing you’d fail, you could strengthen what might be the weaker points of your strategy.

 

Joaquin Desantos was a mess, and Archie Andrews, the star football player and the prodigy with a guitar, was an unattainable star.

 

“I used to see our game as a way to keep my eyes on you,” Veronica admitted, though Jughead wasn’t in the least surprised. “It was a way to let myself think that maybe I was doing something for Heaven and what it wanted.”

 

She shifted to take his hand between hers.

 

Archie Andrews thought Joaquin was too cool to ever talk to him, too sure of himself to ever speak to someone who could barely sing yet insisted on it anyway.

 

“Really it just became an excuse to contact you, and then see you,” Veronica turned his hand over.

 

“Veronica-”

 

“”Forsythe,” She stuck her tongue out with a quick smile, “Jughead, It is, and you know it. But lately… It’s tearing us apart, like the only way we see each other anymore is because we need something from the other, what if all I want is to be around you?”

 

Tomorrow, Joaquin Desantos would wake up realizing he had scored, not just Archie’s number, but a date with him that friday. And Archie Andrews would wake up blushing, having dreamed about Joaquin’s blue eyes.

 

But today, an angel and a demon found themselves linked by just their pinky fingers between them.

 

“Then I guess you have to return the favor,” Jughead swallowed, feeling time crush him under the weight of 5,250 years of staring into her eyes. She frowned and he traced the veins on her corporeal body. “If I’m going to spend more time with you, after everything, then you’ll spend more with me?”

 

Veronica smiled, big and wide, blushing furiously, her eyes reflecting the light she had invented.

 

They stood, hands swinging together automatically. “Okay, but you first,” She said, her chest filled with warmth and her heart beating wildly, staring into her demon’s eyes.

 

Jughead thought, as Archie Andrews nursed a sudden crush on Joaquin DeSantos, and the planets and stars above shined on the boot tracks left by Neil and Him and Veronica, that, we really do fit perfectly together.

 

"So I was thinking, angel-"

 

"Drinks? At the Plaza?"

 

He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back, "I can't imagine anywhere else."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come and talk to me about riverdale @serpentstrength on tumblr!! and check out my other Riverdale fics: Boy That You Love (Jarchie), and rise without ever falling (jughead centric)


End file.
